


Lottery

by Riachinko



Category: Family Guy (Cartoon)
Genre: Barebacking, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scratching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16020734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riachinko/pseuds/Riachinko
Summary: The boys bone. Pwp.





	Lottery

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

He knows it must take some steeled restraint not to cry out, tiny hands clasped over his spit-slick mouth as tight as he can get them. Brian knows, because he feels the strain too, whenever they're at it; wants it to sound like a porno set in here, but it's only just mid afternoon, and while Peter and the kids are out of the house attending to their day-to-day, Lois is doing the same - downstairs.

Brian's relentless to compensate for the lack of free sound, holding the kid’s head down onto the plastic table in the middle of the room as he fucks into him from behind. And since Stewie's hands are over his mouth, he can't help but be dragged back and forth over the table with every single one of Brian's withdrawals; every single feral thrust inside.

The kid does make some noise - short, quiet whimpers of appreciation that can't be heard from beyond the bedroom door; heated “mmphs” in place of explicit “oh gods” and “harders” and “fasters” - they've been through this often enough that Brian can understand every subtle difference in Stewie's muffled wails, the implications behind each stifled intonation.

The kid can take it - takes it way too well for someone his age, rocking his hips back to meet the snap of the dog's.

Hips probably bruising against the table.

Lois never notices the marks - little bruises on her son’s neck and inner thighs. Brian isn't sure how she's ignorant to them still - a mix of Stewie being talented with makeup and the very idea of them together like this too preposterous to even imagine, he supposes. But it's a bit of a crapshoot, the luck's gotta end one of these days.

The paw that rests on Stewie's waist kneads idly into soft flesh and his fingers itch; claws out and not sharp enough to let blood, just present enough to leave raised, pink marks where they dig in. Stewie huffs sharply through his nose when he presses harder; mewls the sweetest sound Brian's ever heard through his fingers.

God, he's close.

“You want me to fill you up?” he says. It's dirty and crude; never been lucky enough to have a woman who isn’t put off by that kind of thing when he's dared to try, but he knows Stewie is, if the nonstop row of “mm-hm, mm-hm, mm-hm--!” is any indication.

Brian's paws leave the boy's head and waist and for a moment, lay useless at his sides. Stewie turns just enough to peek up at the dog, dopey eyes tearing up in the corners, gleaming with curiosity. Must think they're finished, because his hands leave his mouth - all glossy pink and perfect - and he begins to push himself up on his elbows.

“Come on,” he urges softly, licking his lips. “Did you hear something?”

At first, Brian doesn't even realize that he's stopped rocking his hips, until he becomes acutely aware of Stewie - the little champ - pushing back onto him, fucking himself pitifully on the dog's cock like he needs it.

“I know you're not tired already,” he challenges. He sounds jovial enough - always is when he's tiptoeing on the glass of their relationship. “Move.”

Brian just looks down; watches young, pinkened flesh writhing around beneath him. His hands are on fire, the tips of each digit tingling with absolute desire to dig in and _ruin_.

God, he's so, so close.

He grabs Stewie by the shoulders, then, forcing him back to his knot. The kid’s muscles stiffen instinctively, but Brian doesn't push in completely, knows how loud Stewie can scream when they tie. Even now, the kid's practically shaking on the table, grappling for purchase with his left hand and clasping his gaping mouth with his right; toes curled against the carpet.

The dog's thumbs dig into Stewie's shoulder blades briefly, accompanying one deep, slow thrust; nails digging into the boy, and there's that sweet sound again.

“You like that, huh?” Brian snides, breath hitching when his cock throbs because of it.

Another thrust and he's dragging his thumbnails down, down, down; another beautiful purr as Stewie tightens around him, pushing back and into the touch as hard as he can, the little freak.

It's got Brian's pulse racing, breath staggered and he's grunting out “fuck” maybe more than he ought to under the circumstances; can almost count down the seconds before he tips overboard.

“I'm gonna fill you up, baby,” he says, low, leaning down to whisper it against the shell of the kid’s ear. “Take it all, okay?”

And then Stewie is squirming beneath his weight, nodding like he has no control over his body, pushing himself up onto the tips of his toes; mouth uncovered at last while he pants out “yeah, yeah, yeah,” over and over and over.

Brian drags his claws into him as he comes, from his shoulders down to the cleft of his ass, leaving eight angry pink lines running parallel the kid’s sides. Stewie whimpers under the pain, tightening, hell bent on milking Brian fucking dry - even if it takes a while.

He knows Stewie's found release when he collapses boneless against the roundtable, soundless. He's told Brian before that he can feel it, Brian coming inside of him; that he likes to just sit there and take in the sensation of it. It'd been far more crude when Stewie had described it, but the words had sounded overwhelmingly brilliant spilling from those lips all that time ago.

He scrapes his nails down Stewie's back again just for the fun of it - just to see if he can get away with it - and Stewie murmurs softly in reply as Brian rides out the tail end of his orgasm with languid thrusts resulting in jolts of too much pleasure and heavy, blissful sighs.

By the end of it, Brian's practically laying on top of the kid, and as expected, the little bastard took it all - every hot white drop - though he can feel it oozing, running down Stewie's legs and sticking between their bodies. Brian bites his lower lip, brow flinching.

It's gross.

Stewie doesn't seem to mind; might even be asleep.

It would be easier if he was, but no, Stewie turns as soon as Brian lifts himself up, making to separate them before his fur gets too matted to save - something he doesn't need to experience twice in his life.

Stewie gasps dreamily; watches intently with an impish fire in his eyes as Brian pulls out, bringing a silk string of ejaculate with him.

“I love watching you squirm,” he smirks. “You don't like it, wear a condom.”

It's still surprising to Brian how quickly they can shift from lovers to friends. The alarm on Brian's phone plays “Africa” - it's 2:20 so they’ve got ten minutes to clean themselves up before Lois comes upstairs to give Stewie a snack and tuck him in for a nap. He's going to offer to clean the kid up this time, he swears, but Stewie's already made a dash for the bathroom before Brian realizes the intimacy is over.

There's a spotted, shiny trail on the carpet where the kid ran away. He should clean it up, but he's a betting man and odds say Lois won't notice the stains.

 _Probably_ won't notice those sixteen lines of red...

He tries to neutralize his dark thoughts, dabbing at himself with a wet wipe from the changing stand; lets a grin crawl across his face when Stewie comes running back into the room, buck naked.

“You really did a number on my back,” he says simply - not upset or cheeky about it, just indifferent and accepting.

He lets Brian dress him in his usual red and yellow, and he admires his handiwork as he does it, could count the lines one by one if he had the time. But no sooner has Stewie snapped up his overalls than Lois enters the bedroom, cooing at her baby boy, sippy cup and animal crackers in hand.

Brian slips out of the room the best he can, doesn't want to make excuses for why the front of him is all wet.

As he closes the bedroom door, he chances one last look at the kid; Stewie's slung over Lois’ shoulder, staring after him. His brow lowers and he's got that knowing, devilish look in his eye - grinning because they've gotten away with it again, and there's an obvious promise of a next time.

Stewie says it, then, because they both know that Lois won't understand - “Love you, bitch.”

It makes Brian's heart stop dead, but sure enough, the Griffin matriarch is none the wiser. “Sounds like my little man is ready for his nap,” she coos, placing the kid in his crib, and then the door is closed behind Brian and he can't see them anymore.

He can only hear Lois - his head back against the door, eyes focused on the ceiling.

“...Where'd you get a rash like this?”


End file.
